Milk Bottles and Scars
by Kay the Cricketed
Summary: Movieverse. After all is said and done, Racer X and Speed have some unfinished business. A racing track, two bottles of milk, and it's not home but it's close enough.


_Milk Bottles and Stars_

By Kay

Disclaimer: Speed Racer and I have decided we don't own each other. No matter what we may believe to the contrary.

Author's Notes: Just a drabble based off of the film! Obviously there are spoilers for it. (WHO DOESN'T KNOW REX IS RACER X? SHHH.) Hope you guys enjoy! Thanks for reading!

* * *

The second time Speed meets Racer X on a race track, all alone at night, he's fully prepared for the situation. Speed is already at a stop when Racer X glides into a perfect finish with the same flourishing arc that Rex used to have, and Speed distracts himself from the pang in his heart at the sight by reaching under his seat and pulling out two glass bottles. They're still cold, and it feels good because the late evening is balmy.

When he turns back, Racer X is pushing open the door to his Shooting Star and getting out. "That was really slick," Speed calls, grinning wide.

The corner of Racer X's mouth tucks up. "You weren't half bad yourself."

"You were watching?"

Racer X ignores him. "And what are those? You're a little young to be drinking."

Speed lifts the bottles into the light of the stadium and shakes them. The milk sloshes. "Thirsty?"

There's a strange expression on what Speed can see of Racer X's face, but it quickly disappears. The masked man steps forward and takes one of the offered beverages. "A little much for just yourself."

Speed hates the idea of blurting out that he was waiting for Racer X, no matter how true it is. It would be like admitting that he's been taking out two jugs of milk on every run he does at these types of hours. Or that he's been timing it just right with the rumors he's heard about where and when Racer X practices, so he could meet the man again like this. Instead, Speed shrugs and wrenches the lid to his open. He takes a swig before speaking; it's a little like liquid courage now, milk is, reminding him of what he's done. "I didn't see you at the Grand Prix."

"I was there."

"I know. I just didn't see you."

"It was amazing, kid."

Warmth prickles in his chest, bleeding throughout him until Speed is almost too dizzy to take another gulp of milk. He presses the chilled bottle to his chest instead, feeling awkward and more than a little pleased. "I figure, we owed you just as much for gettin' us there. I would've shared the victory milk with you, too."

"Is that what this is?" Racer X's grin is rakish, then, all teeth and not secret at all. "The cold milk I missed?"

"Sorta, I guess." In a way. And yet not. Speed leans against the Mach 6 and lets the calm of the machine settle inside of him. "It was like you said. I did it. I didn't know if I could, but I had to, and it happened just like you said."

"I know. I was never happier to be proven right." Racer X tilts the bottle back and drinks, his Adam's apple bobbing. Then he sighs noisily. "Yeah, that's good stuff. Thanks, Speed."

"Yeah."

For a moment, Speed is going to let it go. Because Racer X and him, it's real comfortable-like right now. Just the pavement still hot under his feet and the breeze bringing a little relief to the humidity, and the quiet, just between them, hovering instead of pushing. But Speed hasn't gone to all this trouble for a glass of milk and he isn't about to forget that.

"I wanted to say…" And here Speed falters, unsure of where to push and when to step back. But Racer X is still grinning, stubble dark in the shadows, the glare of white crossing his mask catching on the moon, and so he plows ahead. It can't hurt things now, not when they feel so good. "I wanted to say I'm sorry for accusing you of bein' Rex. I mean, maybe it made sense, but… I mean, what I'm trying to say is, I still think that doesn't stop us from bein' a good team. Or good friends."

He thinks that's going a little too far when Racer X is silent, the grin slowly fading into a thoughtful purse of lips. But Speed has faced a lot of things, so he just holds his milk bottle tight and keeps his eyes straight. It works in racing, it works in family, and now it works with Racer X.

"I'm the one who's sorry, Speed." Racer X must be looking him in the eye, too, because Speed can feel it all the way down to the toes clenched in his red socks. "I wish I could be your brother. I think you would've deserved it that way. But for what it's worth, I bet he would've been real proud of you. Like I am."

The initial warmth flaring inside is becoming a fire. It stings Speed's eyes and now he has to look away. "Gosh, you're like 'im," he whispers, wishing his voice weren't so scratchy. "But I meant what I said. I won't see 'im in you anymore, I promise. I can see you just fine, anyways. You're as good a racer and a guy as he was, in your own way. So it means a lot that you think that, too."

Racer X says nothing, and then he chuckles. "You shouldn't say things so honest, kid," he tells Speed, tone so low that it is nearly inaudible. "Not like that."

"Oh. I guess. Is it bad?"

"… No. Come on, drink up. It'll get warm." Racer X raises his half-finished bottle. "To your greatest win, though no doubt it won't hold that title for long. And to good friends and good teammates."

Good family, Speed thinks, and he raises his bottle. "Yeah," he says. "To all of it."

They spend the rest of the night sitting on the hoods of their racecars, chatting about everything. When the milk bottles are empty, they roll off the hoods and clink into the sidelines. Speed feels the lingering heat of his engine against his back and the stars are above them, and Racer X's voice is exactly like Rex's in the deepening black, exactly like—so much that it makes Speed's heart ache and beat faster at the same time, as though it can't make up its mind whether or not to believe. But he's past that now, and Racer X is giving him another chance, so Speed wills it to peace.

He falls asleep in mid-conversation, which is mortifying later, and dreams of a gloved hand gently pushing away the curls stuck to his forehead. He doesn't know what name to mumble, though, so Speed sleeps deeper and forgets.

He also thinks, later, that convenience store milk tastes much better than whatever junk the Grand Prix people were buying.


End file.
